
THE STATE COMPANY 
COLUMBIA, S. C, 


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5.®K, 
























































Class_EI ii 


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Copyright N° _j 

'1 £ 2 . 


COEXRIGHT deposit. 

















JANE SCREVEN HEYWARD 














BROWN JACKETS 


BY 

JANE SCREVEN HEYWARD 


\ 


) 

) 



COLUMBIA, S. C. 
THE STATE COMPANY 
1923 


EZ i s 
.86 
.H 62 . 


COPYRIGHT, 1923, 

BY THE STATE COMPANY 


i 



NOV -5 '23 

©C1A760728 





AMBROSE E. GONZALES 


“THE PATHFINDER” 

























AUTHOR’S FOREWORD. 

These sketches of the Gullah Negro, a number 
of which have been given publicly in my read¬ 
ings, are not so much pieces of my own creative 
writing as they are a collaboration written out 
of the experiences of many friends, white and 
black. They carry no propaganda, unless it be 
the unconscious desire to present a sincere im¬ 
pression of the attitude existing between the two 
races in the Carolina Low Country. 

The dialect varies slightly in several of these 
sketches. This is a characteristic that the native 
Carolinian will recognize, that of the urban 
negro being more easily understood than the 
thick “Gullah” of the rural black. 

Grateful acknowledgment is made for the 
services of friends who have contributed mate¬ 
rial that has gone into these sketches; and to 
Ambrose E. Gonzales fot* the great service he 
has rendered in making the “Gullah” dialect 
accessible for the purposes of literature. 












CONTENTS 


Page 

A Priestess of the Suds . 9 

Ole Miss. 12 

The Chicken Mother . 17 

A Mighty Liar . 21 

The Rolling Eve . 25 

In the Making. 32 

Marianne’s Toe . 32 

Lowena Johnson’s Funeral .38 

Daddy Sanders in Defence of Slavery .... 43 

Gunnerman Sho Kin Lie. 50 

Pastor Caesar Gilyad Discourses of the Here¬ 
after . 56 

Phineas Connors—Servant . 61 















A PRIESTESS OF THE SUDS 


With our nervous, quick-footed, energetic 
Maria, black of skin and white of heart, Mon¬ 
day (wash day) was only one degree less sacred 
than Sunday. Perhaps it was that having, in 
a manner, rested on Sunday, the stored-up en¬ 
ergy was obliged to have an outlet, and we knew 
by experience that the early dawn would find 
her, and Elijah, her small ward and factotum, 
creeping about the house, upstairs and down¬ 
stairs, like Gargantuan mice scurrying around, 
with the desire of accomplishment strong with¬ 
in Maria, and the fear of her tongue and ready 
hand a spur to the natural indolence of a small 
negro boy. 

Nothing had ever been specifically said about 
our having breakfast at an earlier hour than 
usual on Mondays, but after listening to the 
scurrying feet from the daylight hour, the family 
found it convenient and expedient to assemble 
in the breakfast room at least a half-hour in 
advance of the usual time, and such was the 
atmosphere of hurry created by Maria, that 
the meal was then partaken of at a rate of speed 
by which an observer would have imagined the 
family in haste to catch an early train. 


10 


Brown Jackets 


Maria and Elijah reminded one of nothing as 
much (after the gigantic mice simile) as a small 
coach being continually pushed up a mountain 
by a very powerful and determined steam engine. 

One Monday morning, when our Goddess of 
Suds and Elijah had been acting the engine-and- 
coach role to unusual perfection, the scurrying 
feet of Elijah stopped by the way when sent on 
an errand pertaining to the sacred rite of clothes- 
washing. Then the “engine” puffed more steam 
and summoning the “coach” from behind the 
wash-house, the modern Temple of Suds, where 
he had taken refuge to draw a long breath, I 
heard her say. 

“Boy, come yah! Wa’s smatter? Yo’ sick, 
enty? I t’ink ’e time fo’ dat medicine I promise 
yo’. Yo’ foot so slow I cay’n see urn de mobe. 
Mus’ be yo’ t’ink vo’ on de chain-gang and yo’ 
foot tie togedder wid chain. Dats we’h I gwine 
put you dureclv, yo’ slow, creepin’ t’ing! Yo’ 
Mammy mus’ be hab de creepin’ sickness sure 
fo’ vo’ bo’n. Doa’ lemme see yo’ stop fo’ 
tin’k pun nuttin’. Enty yo’ know slow walkin’ 
make quick lashin’?” “Yass Ma’am” imper¬ 
turbably answered the boy, but he thought it 
best to speed up again, and when I looked out 
shortly after I beheld Maria, apparently having 


A Priestess of the Suds 


11 


reached her goal, perfectly happy, and seeming, 
as with a long stick she stirred the clothes in 
the large black pot, like a witch, who by her in¬ 
cantations over it, hoped to transform the soiled 
linen into the sweet-scented, smoothly ironed 
clothes, filling the willow basket, which with 
much pomp and pride would be borne into the 
house later by this Priestess of the Suds and her 
small black acolyte, Elijah, who although bear¬ 
ing the name of a prophet, distinctly was here 
to fulfil and not to prophesy. 


OLE MISS 


It was a lovely morning in early Spring, &nd 
an air of unusual excitement pervaded the old 
Plantation. The servants went hurrying around 
as though anxious to complete their usual tasks 
and all were smiling. 

“Young Maussa” had gone to Charleston, and 
when he returned he would bring with him a 
bride, a lady who none of them had ever seen, 
but who would, in time, rule over their destinies. 
And now the day for their arrival had come, and 
the servants would soon be drawn up in line 
to be introduced, and to make their curtsies to 
the new young Miss. 

At the head of the line stood Susannah, a 
comely and intelligent young woman who had 
been selected for these qualities to act as maid 
to her mistress. The hour so long anticipated 
had arrived, and the carriage could be seen ap¬ 
proaching drawn by the finest pair of horses 
the plantation could boast. 

Looking from the window beamed the smil¬ 
ing face of the bride, and when the carriage 
stopped at the entrance to the hall, the servants 
all pressed forward, eager each one to be the 


Ole Miss 


13 


first to shake the hand of “Miss” and “Maussa” 
and extend their congratulations. 

The wording of these congratulations often 
brought a blush to the face of the lady, for such 
was the style of them: “Long life, an’ heap o’ 
chillun, Missis,” “Long life, and every year a gal 
or a boy, Maussa.” 

Susannah was presented to her young “Miss” 
and after curtseying low she said “My Missis, 
I is yo’ sarbent, mam, and I gwine tek cah o’ 
yo’ long as I lib in dis wull, Missis.” 

And so she did. When the wished-for babies 
arrived, Susannah was given the care of them 
and another woman was appointed maid, but 
always was Susannah in the nursery and many 
a time did she help her mistress in her fight 
against croup, measles, or some other dreaded 
ill of the baby days of her young charges. Su¬ 
sannah never forgot her promise to “tek cah ob 
young Missis.” 

When the dreary days of the Civil War came 
on and the Yankees marched against the house, 
and “Young Miss,” who was the only protector 
left on the Plantation, dressed herself and went 
down in the darkness of earlv dawn, herself to 
speak to the Captain and demand protection for 
the house, where were only defenceless women 


14 


Brown Jackets 


and children, Susannah, fearing that her pre¬ 
cious charge, the youngest baby, would be injured 
by the shot penetrating to the nursery, picked 
up the infant, and rushed from the house, de¬ 
termined to protect it with her life. 

Then after the war, and amidst all the deso¬ 
lation which followed in its wake, Susannah’s 
faithfulness was like a rock to be leant upon and 
she and her “Miss” were never parted either 

bv Fate or circumstance. 

«/ 

Years sped on and “Young Miss” had become 
“Ole Miss.” The baby of the baby with whom 
Susannah had fled from the besieged house, was 
a young lady, and Susannah was the beloved 
“Mauma” of all the generations whom she had 
spent the years of her life in nursing and in pro¬ 
tecting from threatened ills. 

It was an unusually cold winter in the South, 
and Susannah had for weeks been confined to 
her bed with a violent attack of rheumatism. 
At the same time the shadows were lengthening 
for “Ole Miss.” Susannah lived in the house 
which had always been hers on the plantation, 
and each morning when she was visited by the 
family from the “Big House,” she sent word to 
tell “Ole Miss,” “De rheumatiz am got me, an’ 
am hollen me in dis bed, but I gwine git ober 


Ole Miss 


15 


um, an’ come een cle house fo’ shum berry soon 
now. Tell Miss fo’ keep up he h’aa’t.” 

One night when ice and snow were every¬ 
where, the final summons came for “Ole Miss,” 
and yet she could not go, continually she cried 
“Susannah, Susannah, come here,” and again 
“Where is Susannah?” 

And what answer could they who loved her 
so well give her? Finally two young girls of 
the house determined that Grandmother should 
have her dying wish gratified, and out of the 
house they went, plunging into the drifts of 
snow and carrying warm blankets and many 
wraps. 

They knocked at Susannah’s door, and cried 
“Mauma, we have come for you; Grannie wants 
you. She is going away and she can’t go until 
you come. Do you think if we carry vou in our 
arms you can go?” 

“Come een, chile, come on een. I gwine fo’ 
see my ole’ Miss. Susannah gwine be dere fo’ 
see ’e Missis; I done promise um dat; him can’t 
go ober Jordan widdout I dedday.” 

So Susannah was lifted out of bed and wrapped 
in many blankets and taken into the house 
in the arms of the two devoted girls. When they 
reached “Grandmother’s” room, they unwrapped 


16 


Brown Jackets 


the worn old form and carried her close to 
the bed, where Grandmother lay calling, call¬ 
ing ever “Where is Susannah ?” 

Susannah caught the thin restless white hands 
in both of hers and carried them to her lips. 
“My Missis, my Missis” she said, “Yah I is, yah 
I is, yo’ Susannah. I cum fo’ go wid yo\ Tek 
me, Missis, tek me ’long, de water ain’ gwine 
col’ ef we go een um tergedder.” 

And the water was not cold, for the two 
friends of almost a lifetime went in together. 

And when “Ole Miss” was laid away for her 
last sleep, Susannah was put to rest at her feet. 






THE CHICKEN MOTHER 





THE CHICKEN MOTHER 


Maria wanted some chickens to raise. I had 
been buying a few every week from my moun¬ 
tain neighbors, to supply the table, but what 
my country-raised cook, Maria, desired with all 
her heart, was a fowl-house and in it chickens, 
scratching and clucking, that she could feed and 
water, and perhaps fatten for the table. 

One day she came to me and made her yearn¬ 
ing known. 

“Mis’ Heyward, wah mek yo’ ain’ buy heap 
o’ chicken an’ lemme raise um? Ef vo’ gimme 
some dem plank and a nail or two, I kin mek a 
fowl-house fo’ keep um een. Mis’ Heyward, 
ent’ yo’ know I is a chicken mudder, mam? An’ 
I wan’ some unner my ban’.” 

After this I realized the necessity of a chicken 
family in Maria’s scheme of happiness, and so 
instituted a series of inquiries to every moun¬ 
taineer I came in contact with. Always I met 
with the same affirmative answer “Yes, I got 
chickens,” but my perfectly natural inquiry as 
to the price seemed to place an insurmountable 
stumbling block in the path of our negotiations. 
The price, or even the approximate price, was 
never known and the chickens failed to appear. 


18 


Brown Jackets 


One day Maria’s desire for chickens to cluck 
and scratch around the yard overcame her culi¬ 
nary ambitions, and realizing that all collec¬ 
tions must have a beginning somewhere, she 
came to me saying: 

“Mis’ Heyward, is yo’ appetite open fo’ 
chicken terday?” I knew that there was only 
one fowl available, and though my appetite 
was decidedly “open,” I said, “Do you want 
to keep that one, Maria?” 

Her face lighted up, and she said, “Yes, Mam, 
ef yo’ kin sparum.” 

I could not be so hard-hearted as to refuse, 
and after a search of my mind, compromised 
with my “open appetite” on something from 
a can, which I could substitute for the sake of 
the potential brood of chickens. Then came 
Sunday, which was always “chicken day” with 
us. Again I practiced self-denial and added the 
two sabbatical chickens to Maria’s original “ewe 
lamb.” 

Monday was washday, day of sacred rites, of 
steaming wash-pot and sudsy odors, but on this 
special Monday there was an added something 
about Maria’s usual washday excitement. She 
had become a real chicken mother, and had a 
brood under her watchful care. The clothes, in 


The Chicken Mother 


19 


a miraculously short time, were swinging briskly 
from the line, and she rushed to me, stammering 
with excitement, to say, “Please, Mam, gimme 
de planks now, so I kin mek de fowl-house.” 

My one and only “He,” seeing that it was im¬ 
possible to stem the tide of Maria’s eagerness, 
and entertaining grave doubts as to the archi¬ 
tecture of the edifice she would erect, decided 
to suspend work upon a poem he was building, 
and turn his ready hand to work upon the struc¬ 
ture. So Maria, her small boy Elijah, and the 
Poet, (the entire active force of the establish¬ 
ment) went into construction work. 

The hands of the chicken mother were trem- 
ulo'us with eagerness, but not to such an extent 
that their efficiency was lost, and when the abode 
was completed, and the proud moment arrived 
when three chickens were moved in, then and 
then only, was her nervous tension relaxed and 
a smile of satisfied motherhood spread over the 
now contented black face. 

Being notified of the building’s completion 
by the cessation of hammering, I called to ask 
her how they liked their new home, and her voice 
conveyed more than her words, in the complete 
satisfaction of her answer, “’e scratchin’.” 


20 


Brown Jackets 


And now my Poet-Builder advises that I close 
and make fast the door of my “appetite for 
chicken” until he can persuade some of the re¬ 
luctant mountaineers to name a chicken’s price, 
for never, never could we be so cruel as to dash 
away the cup of satisfaction so happily raised 
to the lips of the gratified “Chicken Mother.” 


A MIGHTY LIAR 


The weather was bitterly cold, and I was hay¬ 
ing trouble in my rice fields, some repair work 
had to be done as soon as the tide went out, and 
the gang of negro workers who were awaiting 
this time, sat around a blazing fire and talked. 

In order to keep them warm I had brought 
with me to the scene of their labors a bountiful 
supply of Carolina Dispensary corn whiskey, 
and this I distributed freely among them. Then 
I established myself at a short distance near a 
small fire of my own, but within earshot of their 
talk. 

Many were the stories they told, and all of 
them would bear repetition, but I have chosen 
the most typical of the “gunner man” tales 
which reached my ear on that frosty afternoon. 

“Bra Moses, wah dat yo’ binna tell we de 
tudder day Tout Cuh Jo? Le’s we yeddy dem 
again, I forgit wah unner binna talk, dat time. 
Wah’e is yo’ fo’ say?” 

Thus urged Bra Moses commenced. 

“ ’E is disaway, Cuh Jo’ wife been sick een 
’e bed, Cuh Jo gone terrum, an’ ’e stan’ by ’e bed 
de look ’pun urn de lay deh, an’ he sorry ferrum, 


22 


Brown Jackets 


an’ ’e say ‘Gal, wak ’e is yo’ wan’ fo’ eat? I 
gwine git um fo’ yo’.’ ” 

“ ’E wife tell um fo’ fetch a deer, a wil’ tu’kry, 
a honeys, en a fish, den ’e gwinea eat um, an’ 
’e t’ink say he gwinea git well.” 

“Cuk Jo tek ’e gun een ’e han’ an’ ’e gone ter 
de ’ood.” 

“Him see a wil’ tu’kry settin’ ’pun a limb ob 
a tree, an’ underneet de same tree ’e see a deer 
de eat grass, he ain’ know waffer do dat time, 
’e wan’ bot’ de deer an’ also de tu’krys wah ’e 
wife binna as’ him fo’ git ferrum.” 

“He mek up ’e min’ fo’ try git de tu’krys; an’ 
please God! w’en him shoot de tu’kry de limb 
binna rotten, an’ de tu’kry, an’ de limb bot’ 
ob dem is fall down ’pun top de deer, an’ him 
an’ de tu’krys all two dead same time weh dey is.” 

“Cuk Jo haffer cross a water een de road fo’ 
git ter de tree, an’ him binner hab on dem hip 
boot, de water so high een de road ’e splash een 
Cuh Jo boot, an’ him beggin fo’ feel sometin’ 
de move roun’ een ’e boot leg. W’en ’e stop fo’ 
look ’pun um ’e see ’e is de fay fish wah git een ’e 
boot leg. 

“Cuh Jo glad fummek so. Him know ’e wife 
gwinea glad, den he t’ink ’pun dem honeys him 
wife baig um fo’ fetch um, an’ he hope w’en 


A Mighty Liar 


23 


him see de fish an’ de tu’krys, an’ de deer he 
ain’ gwinea ’member ’bout de honeys wall he 
binna as’ um fo’ git.” 

A chorus from the group around the fire. 

“Da’s so, please God, him binna git de wen’son, 
him binna git de tu’krys, him binna contribe fo’ 
git de fishes eben, but ’e cayn git de honeys 
w’en ’e ain’ got no bees. Wah him do ’bout dat, 
Bra Moses? Wah him is gwine to do ’bout dat?” 

“Wah unner t’ink ’e do?” answered this teller 
of wonderful deeds. “Unner t’ink say ’e ain’ git de 
honeys enty? All right den, you is t’ink wrong, 
’e is git um disaway. Him binna lif’ up de rotten 
branch from off de deer fo’ t’row um way, an’ 
him binna yeddy a noise een de branch secca 
bee de buzz, an’ him ain’ rekonize wah him is, 
so him is pull de top ba’ak off de branch, an’, 
please God, de honeys dey on de eenside ob de 
branch, an’ de bee wah is mek de honeys is de 
buzz roun’ um; de bee so sma’at ’e done fin’ de 
hollow een de branch fo’ mek ’e hide een, an’ 
da’s wah mek so Cuk Jo is manage fo’ git de 
honeys ’pun top all dem turrer t’ing fo’ pledger 
’e ’oman wah deh home sick een ’e bed.” 

“W’en Cub Jo’ wife shum cornin’ ’e say ‘Tek 
’way all dem t’ing wah yo’ is got. I ain’ want 


24 


Brown Jackets 


nuttin fo’ eat but de grool wah mek outer de 
bom’ny.” 

“Shugh! ’oman too contrady, and w’en ? e sick 
? e de debbil ? pun top contrady.” 


THE ROLLING EYE 


An experiment? Yes. But when I had been 
told that my only hope of ultimately getting 
back to work was to completely give up for the 
present, and to go into the country, alone—or 
alone save for someone to do the necessary work 
to provide me with sufficient nourishing food to 
sustain life— 

“A hammock on the porch, and nothing, ab¬ 
solutely nothing to do or to think about” was 
what the doctor said. 

As a means of having the necessary work ac¬ 
complished, I chose Malvina, not because she 
was superior to the other possibilities, but be¬ 
cause she was the only one. Honesty and a 
willingness to work were her prime recommen¬ 
dations, but counterbalancing these was her 
most erratic temper. I knew that at the close 
of each day during which nothing had happened 
to arouse her wrath, I would offer a special 
prayer of thanksgiving. 

Attached to Malvina, not by birth but by the 
rite of solemn adoption, was a most ingratiat¬ 
ing small black nephew, who either delighted 
us with his broad smile and wonderful consider¬ 
ation for the comfort of others, or enraged by 




26 


Brown Jackets 


his untruthfulness or thieving propensities. He 
was like a wasp to sting Malvina into rage, a 
veritable old man of the woods, for she had 
promised a dying sister to care for the boy, and 
was sure should she throw him off or put him in 
the often-threatened reformatory, she would be 
forever an outcast among those who knew of her 
promise. 

When Malvina became ill a few days before 
the time of our expected departure, she burst into 
tears at the prospect of not being able to go 
with me into the country, and in answer to her 
husband’s remark “Wall mek yo’ cry? Yo’ de 
fus’ colored pusson I ebber see de cry fo' go 
wid w’ite people,” she said, “Yo’ ain’ knoiv my 
w’ite people, man.” 

She recovered by force of her will, not to be 
left behind, and the party soon were settled in 
the mountain home and the regular daily life 
prescribed by the doctor was taken up. 

Except for Malvina’s uncertain temper when 
stung into action by this wasp, all went well. 
I lay in my hammock on the porch and did not 
even think, except when one or the other of the 
black noses in the establishment would be flat¬ 
tened against the wire screen of the porch door, 
and I would be asked, “Missis, w’at is yo’ pled- 


The Rolling Eye 


27 


ger fo’ dinner ter day?” or “Yo’ gwine gimme de 
money fo’ git de butter?” 

When unstung by the wasp, Malvina’s atten¬ 
tions to me were quite touching, and except for 
those intervals when her temper ran riot, she 
kept the porch beautiful with flowers, and once, 
when she returned after the absence of an hour, 
she brought me a lovely downy pink cactus 
bloom saying, “Dis so putty, I fetch um fo’ vo’ 
ter play wid.” When her humor was extraordi¬ 
narily fine, whether it was desired by me or 
not, she would appear with a hot water bag, for 
the benefit of—she knew not what—but never 
did I fail to thank her enthusiastically and to 
place it somewhere. 

When angered by the wasp beyond endurance, 
she usually absented herself entirely from my 
presence. On these occasions the offender be¬ 
came the bearer of my tray, while I held my 
breath, hoping for the crisis to pass and peace 
to be restored. Sometimes when I was least 
pleased with the bo} r , he would ingratiatingly 
offer me some unusual service such as “Yo’ wan’ 
me fo’ t’red needle fo’ yo’?” and smiling until 
every strong white tooth in his mouth showed, 
he was the living example of black, good-natured 


28 


Brown Jackets 


perfection, and brought a smile to my heart and 
lips, almost against my will. 

One day the largest of the black noses flat¬ 
tened itself to excess against the screen door, 
and I saw with a sinking heart that Malvina was 
again encompassed by what she termed her 
“crazy fits of misery.” The air surrounding 
her seemed as dark as the black face with its 
flattened nose. 

“I gotta go home,” she commenced, “Dis yah 
boy done set me crazy—’e binna tief, Missis, ’e 
binna tief, ’e binna tief, Mam, an’ all my people 
is binna ’spectable, none dem ebber been een 
pententry, ’cep one brudder, him binna put up fo’ 
cut man t’roat—de man is borrow ten cent from 
um, and ain’ gee um back w’en ’e deli as’ um 
ferrum. My brudder been one clear roll-eve- 
nigger, an’ ef roll-eye-nigger git bex, he gwine 
find knife somehownudder and caa’be up some¬ 
body. Ef ’e cay’n caa’be up de one wah do um 
wrong, den ’e gwine caa’be up de nex’ pusson 
wah ’e see. Better lemme go, Missis.” 

I was already trembling with the futile terror 
of one afflicted with “nerves,” but my horror 
was increased by the fact which then for the 
first time burst upon my consciousness, that Mal¬ 
vina’s eye—her left eye— rolled y and seemed 





The Rolling Eye 


29 


under excitement almost to burst from its socket. 
Was I to be the sacrifice to the roll-eye family 
madness? Here I was, alone except for the re¬ 
calcitrant wasp and his enraged “roll-eye” 
Auntie. Could I get to the kitchen and conceal 
from her the vicious looking bread-knife, before 
her rage should reach the cutting point? No, 
not without exciting her suspicions. And the 
wasp? Were those white teeth doomed to shine 
no more between his smiling lips? 

I said all I could to quiet Malvina, and ad¬ 
ministered to her as well as to myself, a nerve- 
tonic which I kept always on hand. 

“Yes, we will all go” I said, “but not today.” 
I would cheerfully have given at that time, 
half of my small income, or all, for one of Mal¬ 
vina’s smiles, but the time was not propitious 
for the purchase of such. She kept out of my 
sight, and the wasp, looking somewhat subdued 
but still smiling, brought my supper to the porch. 
I looked at his shiny black skin and wondered 
if that portion around his neck was doomed to 
wear a crimson collar before morning. “Crazy 
fit of misery” I said to myself, “Crazy fit of mis¬ 
ery ; it’s nothing to the crazy fit of misery / have 
right now, even though I am not a ‘roll-eye 
nigger,’ but just a poor, wretched person who 


30 


Brown Jackets 


fears to be the next sacrifice to the rage of one 
who is.” 

On going to bed that night, I would assuredly 
have locked my door, but I found the key had 
disappeared, so wishing Malvina a trembling 
but conciliatory “good night,” I turned in. It 
was long before I could get to sleep, as my ice- 
cold feet missed their accustomed hot water bag, 
which had been forgotten in the unusual and 
unheal thy excitement which prevailed. 

Early, very early next morning, I heard the 
handle of my door turned; it was the sound 
which subconsciously my mind had all night 
been expecting and dreading to hear. My hour 
had come, but it occurred to me that even a “roll- 
eye nigger” might hesitate to carve up a lady she 
loved, in her sleep. So I assumed the calm slum¬ 
ber of an innocent child. Would Malvina, the 
roll-eyed, subject to her crazy fit of misery, not be 
turned from her purpose when she looked upon 
the face she loved, in sleep? 

Assuming the appearance of abandon which I 
was far from feeling, I lay there awaiting what 
would happen. I heard the footsteps creeping 
toward the bed; nearer they came. Should I 
unclose my eyes the least little bit to peep out 


The Rolling Eye 


31 


and see, I would break the illusion of peaceful 
slumber I had striven to create. 

Now she was at the bed, fumbling with the 
bedclothes. Perhaps not my throat to be cut 
this time, but my legs to be cut off. How ter¬ 
rible! What? No? Oh, the joy—Malvina had 
lifted the bedclothes gently at the foot of the 
bed so as not to awaken me, and had quietly 
slipped my much-needed hot water bag into its 
accustomed place at my frozen extremities. 

Surreptitiously I lifted very slightly, one eye¬ 
lid just enough to glimpse her face, and oh, how 
I loved the calm quiet of her facial expression 
and of the eves which had ceased to “roll.” The 
“crazy fit of misery” had passed, but the report 
which my doctor received that week was not 
encouraging: “Nervous condition unsettled; in¬ 
somnia again rules the night.” 


IN THE MAKING 


In the remote parts of the country, and in the 
isolated Sea Islands of South Carolina, the ne¬ 
groes of this day still retain much of their faith¬ 
fulness to their employers, and are unsophisti¬ 
cated and simple in their manner of thought. 

When these migrate to the cities they make 

valuable servants because thev have a real af- 

*/ 

fection toward those for whom they work, and 
it is by their possession of this quality that they 
compensate for the time and patience which 
must be expended in teaching them the compli¬ 
cated ways of a city household. 

Their ignorance of urban matters is some¬ 
times most surprising. 

One of these simple darkeys obtained employ¬ 
ment with me, and I painstakingly explained 
to her my name, also instructed her how she 
should act when answering a call at the street 
door. 

This was the disappointing result: 

A knock at my door—“Come in, Maria.” 

“W'ite Folks, dere’s a ’oman at deh doa’, ’e 
say ? e wan’ see yo\” 


In The Making 


33 


I asked for the “ ’oman’s” name. Much sur¬ 
prised that I should expect such information 
from her, Maria answered: 

“I ain’ know ’e name, I ain’ nebber shum befo’, 
how I gwine know ’e name?” 

“Howsomeebber, W’ite Folks, him binna say 
somethin’ ’bout a Heywards, mebbe da’ ’e name, 
I ain’ know.” 

I now realized that Maria had forgotten my 
name, and was addressing me as “W’ite Folks.” 
This knowledge on my part called for more les¬ 
sons in the gentle art of deportment. 

After a while my confidence in Maria’s hon¬ 
esty was so firmly established that I left home 
for several months trusting her to take charge 
of kitchen and pantry, during my absence. 

On my return after greetings had been ex¬ 
changed I noticed in her hands a newspaper 
package, which she bashfully held towards me. 
I thought it some sort of a coming home present, 
and was preparing to enthuse over it when she 
said: 

“Dis am yo’ picter, Missis, w’en you gone ’way 
I binna tek um home wid me, so I hab a chance 
fo’ look ’pun yo’ face w’en yo’ ain’ yeh fo’ me 
look ’pun yo’ yosself. Now you is come back, 


34 


Brown Jackets 


an’ I kin see yo’, so I is bring urn back, Missis, 
I ain’ gwintea teef nm.” 

I was much touched by this mark of Maria’s 
affection. 

Shortly before Christmas I called her to me 
saying, “Maria, what do you want for Christ¬ 
mas?” 

“Me wan’ apun,” was her answer. 

“All right, you shall have it,” I said. “I will 
tell Santa Claus to bring it for you.” 

Next morning early, without pausing to knock 
at my door, she burst into my bed-room, tremb¬ 
ling with excitement, and said: 

“Miss Heyward, how ver—how yer—like a 
little basket fo’ yo’ C’rismus?” 

I said, “Maria, that would be lovely, but how 
do you think I could get it?” 

She answered, “I gwinea, I gwinea ax Santy 

Clua’ fetch um fo’ vou.” 

«/ 

Next day when she appeared with the basket 
carefully done up in newspaper she handed it 
to me, and announced: 

“ ’E ain’ see C’rismus yet, but I buy um an’ 
I cayn wait.” 


MARIANNE’S TOE. 


Sunday afternoon in the Quarters. How won¬ 
derfully clean were the little yards around the 
small wooden houses. On the step of each house 
sat its owners, basking in the warm sunshine 
and awaiting the regular Sunday afternoon 
friendly call from “Maussa and Miss.” 

From a long way off they could be seen ap¬ 
proaching, arm in arm, and stopping as they 
came at each cabin door, to chat, and either re¬ 
joice or sorrow with its occupants on the hap¬ 
penings of the week, the tale of which was poured 
into their sympathetic ears. 

Maum Marianne had substituted for “Maus- 
sa’s Mauma” once, when she had been ill, and 
so she considered herself a sort of vicarious 
Mauma to her Maussa, and so demanded special 
attention from him on these delightful Sunday 
afternoon calls. 

“Well, Maum Marianne,” he called cheerfully 
as he approached her domain, “how are you 
this afternoon?” 

Her answer was discouraging. “Ki, Maussa, 
how yo’ kin as’ me how I is? Enty yo’ know I 
is most crazy wid my foot? Ebry Sunday I is 
tell yo’ he hu’t me; he ain’ git no better.” 


36 


Brown Jackets 


“Maussa” having prescribed frequently for 
the foot without apparently helping it at all, 
first looked very sympathetic, then seeing that 
was not the medicine required, he tried jollying 
the old woman a little, and said: 

“Upon my soul, Marianne, I am afraid you 
will have to have that toe chopped off; I don’t 
know what to do for it.” With a few more jok¬ 
ing words, which actually produced a laugh 
from the sufferer, he moved on and he and 
“Miss” proceeded on their way with their social 
calls in the Quarters. 

Next morning when Maum Bina, the sick 
nurse, came in to “Miss” as usual, with her re¬ 
port of the sick on the place, she asked for some 
cotton and turpentine “fo’ fix up Marianne toe.” 
“Miss” expressed surprise at this, and asked for 
particulars concerning the troublesome member. 
She was horrified to hear from Maum Bina: 

“How, Miss, yo’ ain’ know Maussa been tell 
she fer chop um off? Da’ wah him tell me. Him 
call me an ax me fo’ call Br’er Lisha, and ax 
him to fetch he chisel from ’e ca’penter shop, and 
come chop off ’e toe, like Maussa tell she fo’ do. 
When Br’er Lisha come, ’e tell um Maussa say 
he urns’ chop off he toe w’ hu’t um, and him put 
’e foot up on de ca’penter bench and Br’er Lisha 


Marianne’s Toe 


37 


tek he chisel an’ he put um on ’e toe, en he tek 
’e hatchet, an’ he hit ’e chisel widum, an’ de toe 
is fly off, ’tell he loss in de bush. Cu Marianne 
been a stan’ up but atter dat, him haffer set 
down and I fetch um some water. ’E say ’e 
all right ter day, an’ he glad he toe done chop 
off, but ’e t’ink I better tie up de place weh he 
been, wid tupentine.” 

“Maussa” was much concerned when he heard 
that his joking had been taken seriously, but as 
Marianne suffered no ill consequences from 
Br’er Lisha’s crude surgery and was much hap¬ 
pier without the offending member than she had 
been with it, all ended well. 


LOWENA JOHNSON’S FUNERAL 

Lowena Johnson, kind, patient, silent Lowena, 
had scraped her biscuit board for the last time; 
for the last time had she delighted our palates 
with her breakfast waffles and cheered our in¬ 
ner man with her delicious, hot, steaming okra 
soup, and now our kitchen seemed like a desert- 
wild to the family, who had depended on our 
faithful cook for many a long year. Now 
“Loweny” had gone never to return, and we had 
been notified by her family of her sudden death,- 
and had also been asked to attend the funeral 
which would take place at the church. 

As Lowena was advanced in years, we thought 
a sheaf of wheat was an appropriate floral of¬ 
fering, and so ordered it from the florist. It 
had been sent with our cards, and a sentiment 
of deep regret. 

At the appointed hour we arrived at the 
church and Avere shown by the sexton to conspic¬ 
uous seats near where the casket would rest. 

We knew that the departed had been a faithful 
member of her church Society, for often we had 
been obliged to forage for dinner, while she was 
attending the funeral of one or another of her 
“Class.” And noAv they reciprocated by at- 


Lowena Johnson^ Funeral 


39 


tending in large and mournfully garbed numbers. 

They followed the casket into the church in 
two long, black lines. Finally, members of the 
family came in and took their 'places near the 
casket. With wonderful consideration, when 
Lowena’s sister, through her long black veil 
espied us sitting there, she advanced from her 
position, and searching among the paper flowers 
which covered the casket, she found what she 
was looking for —our sheaf of wheat—and stood 
it up stiffly on end, so that we, its donors, could 
see for ourselves that it was not only fully ap¬ 
preciated but was being given the place of honor. 
We esteemed highly this attention. 

The service started with the singing of a 
doleful hymn and at its close there were many 
moans and sounds of grief from the “Class.” The 
minister announced in tones of unerring cer¬ 
tainty that when the angel of Death had knocked 
at Sister Lowena’s door at six-fifteen the night 
before, he had found her ready and waiting for 
the summons. From the Society cries of “Yes, 
Lord! Das de trut’ Lord, Yes, Lord!” 

After many long prayers came the sermon and 
its compliments to her would, I am sure, have 
surprised patient, quiet Lowena. After many 


40 


Brown Jackets 


remarks about the holiness of her life, the 
preacher concluded by saying: 

“W’en yo’ alls is read de histry book, dis is 
wah yo’ gwine see dere, ‘Dere is dis free great 
’oman in de work from de time ? e is beggin, one 
is Queen Isabella, one is Queen Victoria, an’ 
one is Lowena Johnson!’ Yes, I say, Bredderin, 
yo’ unnerstan’ me right, one is Lowena Johnson.” 
And he continued: 

“Him wah is now lyin’ befo’ yo’ ’een de col’ 
clay.” From the “Class,” “Yes, Lord, Yes, Mass’ 
Jedus, een de col’ clay,” then sobs and groans. 

Having paused to give opportunity for these 

expressions of grief, the pastor continued. “De 

jus’ one wah I talk ’bout, Queen Isabella,— him 

been sell he breas’ pin an’ gee de money to Chris- 

* 

topher Columbus, an’ also he is sell he yerring, 
an’ he gee dat money ter Christopher Columbus, 
an’ w’en he dollar git ’nough, him come in de 
yea’ 1914, an’ him been discober at dat time de 
cuntinent ob Sout’ America, so das how de Queen 
Isabella is come ter be berry highly fought ob, 
but not mo’ so dan our sister lyin’ een de col’ 
clay. I is yeddy him v’ice de call back now ter 
yo’ all—him foot is in de ribber Jordan, an’ he 
is say ‘Good bye, Sisters an’ Goodbye, Bredders.’ 
Him is wabe ’e han! I shum; an’ him is dress 


Lowena Johnson’s Funeral 


41 


in de p’yo w’ite. Him face is shine secca de 
angel face.” Cries of “Good Bye” are heard 
here. 

“De nex’ one ob dem great ’oman wah I is 
menshun, him is Queen Victory, an’ him mone 
all ’e life fo’ ’e husbin. An’ doa a heap o’ man 
is cote him, he ain’ neber marry none dem. An’ 
him sit ’pun de t’rone, an’ hab henkercher to ’e 
eye, an’ him say ’e rudder be widder ’oman dan 
ter marry wid anudder mans. Das wah mek him 
great! Enty I tell miner him great? 

“Den las’ly I is come ter de t’ird great ’oman 
in de hist’ry book, an’ him is lyin’ befo’ unner 
now een de col’ clay; him is binna name Lowena 
Johnson, but he is git a new name wah ’e gone. 
But een de hist’ry book das wah dey is name 
him. An’ him binna great as de turrer two 
queen een he own nationality.” 

Haying gotten out this very large and unusual 
word, the pastor sank into his chair to note the 
effect of it upon the mourning congregation. 

Cries rent the air, and among them could 
be distinguished the words “Nationality!” 
“Yes, my Lord, Nationality,” “ ’e own Nation¬ 
ality.” “Good bye, Lowena, Good bye Lowena— 
Good bye, Sister.” 


42 


Brown Jackets 


As the service had already lasted for an hour 
and three-quarters, we slipped out during the 
excitement over the new word. Walking down 
the street, we still heard the mournful sound, as 
the “Class” continued to call their “good byes” 
to their former faithful member. 

There was so much of the dramatic about the 
funeral that we realized how impossible it would 
ever be to keep one’s cook in the kitchen when 
the call had come to attend the obsequies of one 
of her “Class.” 


DADDY SANDERS IN DEFENCE OF 

SLAVERY 


For days I had been endeavoring to secure 
the services of a really good house cleaner; win¬ 
ter was approaching, and carpet-laying time was 
upon me. Almost it seemed in response to my 
very earnest desire, there came a timid ring at 
the door bell, and Annie, my newly acquired serv¬ 
ant girl, ushered into my presence a typical old 
“before the war” negro man. 

He was almost a giant in size, and his com¬ 
plexion was of a thoroughly respectable coal 
black hue. After bowing low, the salutation 
being augmented by a scraping of the old man’s 
feet, he made his business known. 

“Miss,” he said, “I is a house cleaner by per- 
fession, and de lady wah engage me ter wuk 
ferrum ter day, he ain’ see he way clear fo’use me, 
so, my Missis, I dis been tek a chance an’ ring 
yo’ doa bell, t’inkin’ you might be in need ob 
somet’in’ in my line, wah-by I kin keep busy 
t’rou’ de day.” 

On inquiring his name, I received the answer : 
“I is name Sanders, my Missis, mam; dis San¬ 
ders.” 


44 


Brown Jackets 


The face which I looked into was so honest 
that it was with difficulty I could make up my 
mind to ask for his references, but so often had 
this reluctance gotten me into trouble, that I 
continued, addressing him by the title I had 
learned to use to all old men on the plantation. 
“Daddy Sanders” I asked, “Have you any recom¬ 
mendation? Something to tell me you can do 
your work well?” 

It was with a sense of relief that I saw his 
feelings were not hurt as he answered, “Das 
right, my Missis, yo’ is pufkly right, but I is 
sorry mam, dat I ain’ got no writin wid me ter 
day; I lef urn ter my house coz I ain’ t’ink I 
gwine hab use ferruin, Mam, but my Missis, I 
got um een my mout’. I is of’en substitute fer 
Mayor Rab’nel, mam, de one wah lib on Legare 
Street. When him house cleaner is sick, mam, he 
does ofen sen’ me terrain fer do he wuk. Is 
you ’quainton wid he, my Missis?” 

I answered that while not personally ac¬ 
quainted with the distinguished gentleman, I 
often visited my relatives living near him. The 
old man bowed low in recognition of the fact, 
and said, “I ain’ doubt it, my Missis, I ain’ doubt 
it atall mam. De minute I set my eye on yo’ 
face I know you is related on Legare Street.” 


Daddy Sanders in Defence of Slavery 45 


After this verbal exchange of certified re¬ 
spectability, I engaged Daddy Sanders for a 
day’s work as a house cleaner and carpet-layer. 
With the ease and understanding of a well- 
trained servant of the old school, he commenced 
his task and feeling that he needed no supervis¬ 
ion, I absented myself for several hours. Fi¬ 
nally, thinking it wise to investigate conditions, 
I returned to the room. The old man turned to 
me from his position on the floor, and to my sur¬ 
prise, asked, “My Missis, weh you is git dat gal, 
mam; de one dat is wuk fer you?” 

I answered his inquiry by saying, “She came 
in answer to an advertisement I put in the paper 
last week, and as she was well recommended I 
engaged her; she does her work very well.” 

“But, my Missis, she is a fool, mam,” I was 
startled to hear Daddy Sanders say. “Him is 
a plum fool, mam, (’scuse de wild) ; him come 
in yah, an’ widdout my say nuttin terrum, him 
sta’t de conbersation, an’ him say dis ter me: 

“ ‘Ole man, you is been in slabery time, enty?’ 
I answered urn ‘Yes, dat I is glad fer say I yiz, 
fer ef I ain’ been in slabery time, I ain’ been able 
fer earn a hones’ libbin’ ter day. Dat I is able 
ter now on account de trainin’ my ole miss done 
gee me.’ Den him laugh, kine ob sassy like, an’ 


46 


Brown Jackets 


him say, ‘Lord, me glad me ain’ been yere in dem 
days, w’en ef yo’ ain’ do wall dey tell yo’ fer 
do, you is git lash.’ 

“Missis, he mek me so bex I say ‘Gal, ain’ yo’ 
ma an’ yo’ pa lash yo’ w’en dey git ready?’ 
Him say ‘Yes, ’e is.’ I say, ‘Dem is lash yo’ 
w’en dem git bex wid yo’, enty? In de ole time 
w’en yo’ maussa hab you lash, ’e is because 
unner neglec’ fer do wah him tell you fer do. 
Look’pun me, gal! I git a heap ob lash, coz 
mek I ain’ scrub out de pantry an’ de kitchen 
ebry mornin’, come fibe o’clock. Da wah my 
Missis ’struct me fer do, so he dry by de time 
de cook got fer git de breakfus ready fer de 
w’ite people eat. W’en I sit up late an’ I sleepy, 
I ain’ do um, den I is get de lash, but Gal, dat 
is de trainin’, an’ dey is got a puffick right fer 
gee um ter me. Maussa him ain’ hab we lash 
w’en him bex wid we, but yo’ Pa and yo’ Ma is 
do dat-a-way.’ 

“De gal ain’ say nuttin ter dat, an’ I t’ink say 
him onnerstan’ so I settle myself back ter do 
my wuk, but atter w’ile him return and him 
crack de doa, and him say, ‘I dunkah, I glad I 
is born free.’ 

“ ’E so fool, Missis, I ain’ know waffer tell 
um; I ain’ know wah mek ’e can’t lemme ’lone, 


Daddy Sanders in Defence of Slavery 47 


but I wan’ git on wid my wukso dat bein’ de 
case, I is reason wid urn once mo’. I say, ‘Gal, 
w’en yo’ sick ain’ yo’ ma and yo’ pa got fer sen’ 
fer de doctak, and ain’ dem got fer pay de doctab 
fer ebry wud him say? An’ w’en de winter wed- 
der come and yo’ got to hab warm close, ain’ 
yo’ pa and yo’ ma got fer buy um fer vo’? An’ 
w’en yo’ teet’ got fer pull out, ain’ dey got fer pay 
a man fer do um? W’en de wedder t’un cole, 
ain’ dem got fer buy warm cubbrin fer yo’ bed, 
fer mek yo’ warm? An’ ain’ dey got fer pay 
rent fer de house unner de sleep een? An’ more- 
sumober, gal, w’en yo’ git out er wuk, ain’ dem 
got fer buy bittle fer put een yo’ mout’? An¬ 
swer me dat?’ Him got ter say ‘yes’ ter ebry- 
t’ing I ax um, so den I say, ‘Een de ole time all 
yo’ got fer do is lib, dis lib. Maussa him been 
ten’ ter ebryt’ing else; him eben been ’gage de 
preacher and pay um fer come tell we’all de 
wud ob God. No c’lection plate eben, in dem 
days, nuttin’ fer we put we money een, we ain’ 
got none fer put, das de trut’; we ain’ got no 
money an’ we ain’ need ob none. Maussa himself 
supply we want, and all we nigger haffer do, is 
do wah him tell we fer do.’ 

“Dat gal, him ain’ sati’fy yet; him continner 
ter say ‘Me glad me ain’ born in dat day. Enty 


48 


Brown Jackets 


yo’ maussa been hab Driber? An’ enty him been 
half kill cle po’ nigger wid de lash? Den w’en he 
so weak wid de hutting enty him been sen’ um 
back fer do he tas’?’ 

a I ketch my bre’t an’ I tell nm ‘No, gal!’ Den 
t’inkin ’pun wah him is say I lose my pashen 
wid him completely, an’ I say: ‘Gal, is you a 
plum fool? Is you t’ink Maussa gwine kill he 
boss? ’E is de same t’ing. Is you t’ink Maussa 
gwine kill he mule? ’E is de same t’ing. Is 
you t’ink he gwine kill ’e cow, an’ ’e hog? ’E is 
de same t’ing. Is you t’ink Maussa gwine pay 
he t’ousan’ dollar fer nigger, an’ gwine let he 
Driber lash um ter death? I ax you dat, Gal, 
is you? 

t/ 

“ ‘No sah, dat is plum foolishness; we is him 
property wah he buy, an’ he own sense tell um 
fer tek care ob we.’ 

“W’en I stop talk, de gal been hang he head, 
so’s I can’t see he face, an’ I t’ink say I is con- 
wince um. Den, my Missis, I tell um fer gullong 
and dat um ain’ fer bodder me no mo’. I ain’ 
wan’ fer heaten up wid no argumen’; I is come 
yah fer wuk an’ dat is wah I wan’ do. 

“My Missis, yo’ better sen’ dat gal away, mam; 
him ain’ got no sense atall, ’scusin de wud mam, 
but him is a plum-fool!” 


Daddy Sanders in Defence of Slavery 49 


Observing that the old man was much worked 
ui) over the situation, I assured him that she 
would never interfere with him again, and going 
from the room, I closed the door after me so 
that this loyal defender of slavery, as he knew 
it, could be undisturbed and could devote his 
time to the work in hand. 

Hidden in the kitchen I found Annie, the dis¬ 
turber of Daddy Sanders’s peace. She was 
shaking with laughter and when I reproached 
her for worrying the old man, she said: “ I just 
couldn’t help it, Mam, he tek me so ser’ous.” 


GUNNERMAN SHO KIN LIE 


Daddy Tommy from his boyhood had served the 
family to which he belonged, with faithfulness 
and devotion. In the old plantation days he had 
been trained to acquire skill as a “Driver,” and 
in that capacity, mounted on his rough horse, 
equipped with horn and long whip, which he 
was skilled in cracking at the pack of hounds 
baying at his horse’s heels, he accompanied his 
master on every hunting expedition. 

When the hunters composing the party had 
been placed on their “stands,” it was the driver’s 
delightful duty to ride where he knew the deer 
were likely to congregate, and setting the dogs 
upon them to frighten them from their place of 
hiding and then to see that in their flight they 
took a course leading them past the stands where 
the hunters were concealed and in so doing to 
give each man, if possible, the chance of a shot 
at these shy, wild creatures of the forest. 

The position was one of great honor on the 
plantation, and he who held it was likely to be 
envied by all the other servants. 

Years after freedom, and when emancipation 
had become an old story, “Young Maussa” had 
grown up to manhood, not on the old plantation 


Gunnerman Sho Kin Lie 


51 


but in a nearby city, and he viewed a visit, with 
its accompanying hunt, at the home of his 
fathers, as the most complete joy possible in 
life. 

“Daddy Tommy,” now white-headed, but still 
full of enthusiastic love for the sport, and as 
true of heart as of old, would send a message to 
“Young Maussa” when he considered the chances 
particularly good for deer killing, and with this 
message came always an invitation which said: 
“Baig Maussa fo’ come, an’ tell um fer fetch wid 
um some dem turrer genemun from town wah 
is he frien’ so’s me an him kin larn um how fer 
shoot de deer. Tell Maussa I got chicken de fat¬ 
ten een de hen house—ferrum, an’ I got plenty 
rice an’ t’ing fo’ he eat. Tell um I got wife fo’ 
cook ’e bittle ferrum, an’ boy fo’ wait ’pun de 
table and bresh de fly wah bodder him an’ he 
frien’. 

“Tell um fo’ hurry up an’ come quick ter Bon- 
neau depot, an’ he gwine meet me dere wid de 
mule an’ de ca’at whatsomebber day him say 
him cornin’, him an’ ’e cump’ny.” 

On receipt of this hospitable message, “Young 
Maussa,” with the urge of the country upon him, 
would summon his delighted friends, and the 
party of hunters arriving at “Bonneau depot” 



52 


Brown Jackets 


would find awaiting them, their expectant host 
“Daddy Tommy,” sitting in his dilapidated old 
wagon, holding in—very unnecessarily—his pa¬ 
tient, lazy old mule. 

No welcome could have exceeded in warmth 
and genuineness that of the excited old man, 
who fairly trembled in his eagerness to play 
properly the role of host, to this representative 
of all that stood to him for the great and good 
in life, “my old Maussa’s own grandson!” 

“Young Maussa” was an adept in telling 
hunting stories—regular Gunnerman’s fairy 
tales, which had come down in the annals of 
the family, and so clever was his way of nar¬ 
rating them, that it was difficult for his listen¬ 
ers to know whether he intended them to be be¬ 
lieved or not. On this occasion he had as his 
guest a Northern man, and knowing his unfa¬ 
miliarity with the subject in hand, he was 
tempted into an excess of exaggeration, encour¬ 
aged also by his politeness as a listener, which 
led him to believe that such politeness must be 
the child of great credulity. So receptive seemed 
the guest’s attitude of mind that he told the story 
of an occasion when he had shot a deer through 
its hind foot and the shot, passing through its 
body, had come out in front of its victim’s head, 


Gunnerman Sho Kin Lie 


53 


killing it on the spot. Reason rebelled at this 
statement, too exaggerated for even the polite 
credulity of the guest to pretend to believe, and 
he said “Pardon me, but that does not seem a 
possibility. Was there any one there when it 
happened? Had you an eye-witness to such a 
remarkable occurrence?” 

“Yes” answered mine host. “Tommy here. 

7 

was with me. Tell him about it, Daddy Tommy, 
tell the gentleman you saw it.” 

The old man answered, “Yes sah, I sw’a’ dat’s 
de trut\ I is shum wid my own two eye. I bin 
wid Maussa, and I see dat deer pitch ober and 
I shum fall down dead. W’en we gone fo’ look 
? pun um, we bin see dem shot all dedday in de 
front ob he head. Yes sah, dat’s de trut’, I tell 
yer.” 

“All right, old man” said the guest, “but 
please explain to me how it was possible for 
such a thing to have happened.” 

At this request the old Driver scratched his 
head as though searching for inspiration, but 
his pause was only for a moment, and then with 
wonderful ingenuity and fine loyalty, he ex¬ 
plained the inexplicable. 

“ ’E been a dis way, sah, yes sah, I kin ’splain 
um easy. Yo’ see, Boss, dat deer been a punish 


54 


Brown Jackets 


wid de miskeeter bite um, coz him bin a lib een 
de swamp and das weh de skeeter lib and breed. 
W’en dat deer been a run and him git ter de 
stan’ weh Maussa dem been a hide from um, 
dat miskeeter bite been a eetch him bad ’hine 
’e yeas; ’e bin eetch um so boddersome dat he 
been seddown fo’ scratch um, an’ he ain’ notice 
Maussa dem been a hide een de bush, dat deer 
is ac’ heself secca like a cat, him tek he hine feet 
an’ he lif’ um up, and wid dat hine feet he 
scratch eeself ’hine ’e yeas, secca like him been 
a cat. W’ile him been a do dat, my Maussa him 
lif ’e gun, an’ tek ’e aim, de gun go bang, an’ de 
shot him gone right t’rou’ dat deer hine feet wah 
him de scratch de biteness wid, an’ right t’rou’ 
dat animule head, an’ de shot come right spang 
out t’rou’ de deer forehead, secca like him been 
a windows fo’ de shot go t’rou’ an’ so, Boss, dat 
is de mek him cumso dat my Maussa is a 
been kill dat deer dat-a-way like him been a tell 
yo’ he is do.” 

Having proved his loyalty as well as his mar¬ 
vellous ingenuity, and therefore having honor¬ 
ably acquitted himself according to his prim¬ 
itive code, the old man, with his red pocket 
handkerchief, mopped his forehead, wiping the 


Gunnerman Sho Kin Lie 


55 


drops caused by his mental effort from his per¬ 
spiring brow. 

Later in the day, when alone with Daddy 
Tommy, the adored “Young Maussa” said to him: 
“Daddy Tommy, you sure are a champion liar, 
and you stood by me well today when I told my 
Gunnerman story; that was a fine idea of yours 
about the deer scratching behind his ear with 
his hind foot, like a cat. How did you happen to 
think of it?” 

“How, Maussa, enty yo’ tell me I got fo’ do 
um? Enty yo’ tell me fo’ say ’e is de trut’? 
Enty sarbent got fo’ do wah ’e maussa tell um 
fo’ do? But, Maussa, leinme baig yo’ de nex’ 
time yo’ go fo’ tell dat ’sperence,—please, my 
Maussa,—please sah, place dem paa’t de deer 
body closer tergedder, sah. Yo’ sarbent haffer 
t’ink mighty quick fo’ mek de deer hine feet de 
come close de deer head, w’en God A’mighty 
hisself ain’ mek um dat-a-way. Yes sah, Maussa, 
da Gunnerman story sho laa’n me fo’ t’ink 
quick.” 



PASTOR CAESAR GILYAD DISCOURSES 
OF THE HEREAFTER 

The little white-washed church beside the 
road, where the negroes of the primitive country 
neighborhood assembled regularly every Sun¬ 
day night for worship, was crowded on this 
particular Sunday, and the brown, earnest, ques¬ 
tioning faces of the negroes were upturned to 
the small pine pulpit, from which their pastor, 
the Reverend Caesar Gil yad, who, as he ex¬ 
pressed it, “pastured” this flock, was expound¬ 
ing to them, as best he knew how, the conditions 
they might expect to meet with in the Hereafter. 

“My Bredren” he said, “My Bredren, wah is 
it you t’ink say, dat Hell is gwine ter be, when 
yo’ gits dere? Wah kine an’ condition ob place 
you t’ink he is gwine ter be? You ain’ know? 
Well den, I goffer tell unner wah he is. Ha’ken 
to me, sinners, fo’ I is about ter rebeal ter unner 
de true state ob de case. 

“An’ moresomoher , w’en I git t’rou’, you is 
gwine see dat you is better so order yo’ conduc’ 
een dis life, dat dere ain’ no chance atall ob yo’ 
gittin dere een de life ter come. 

“Hell, my Bredren, stan’ like-a dis— 


Pastor Caesar Gilyad Discourses 57 


“Unner all is know how de eewside ob a aig 
is look? Unner all is know he is roun’? All 
right. Unner all know he is slip’ry? All right. 
Den unner know, if anything git een um, dat 
Ping can’t by all he trying manage fer crawl 
out ob um; ebry time he try, ’e foot slip back 
ag’in. 

“Well, my Bredren de walls ob Hell is dis 
like dat aig , he is roun’ an’ he yiz slip’ry. An’ 
een de bottom is de bottomless pit, an’ een de 
bottom ob de bottomless pit bu’n de fire, wah 
yiz nebber extinguish, by daytime or by night 
time. 

“Dat fire ain’ mek up wid ’ood, my Bredder! 
Dat fire is ketch up wid de body ob de sinner; 
him is de fuel wah is mek de flame wah is rise 
up. Dis bein’ de case, I is soun’ de warnin’, I 
tell unner fer tek ca’! 

“More dan dat—unner know how de beas’ wid 
liorn de stan’? 

“Unner is know how de ox is stan’? Unner 
is know how de Billy-goat is stan’? 

“All right, den; lemme tell unner dis t’ing, 
dat same way is de debbil chile de stan’. Him 
stan’ secka like de debbil lieself. 

“Dat horn gwine stan’ out een ebry ’rection, 

’e yiz! 

*/ 


58 


Brown Jackets 


“Some ter de eas’ an’ some ter de wes’! 

“Some de debil’ chillun gwine hab one horn 
and some gwine hab two, an’ some gwine hab 
six. Yes, my Bredder, some gwine hab SIX! 
Wah you is t’ink ob dat? 

“Knowin’ all dese t’ing ter be true, I is aswise 
de member ob dis flock wah I is pasture, fo’ be 
monsfus careful how dey ees ac’. Put all de 
money yo’ kin spare, eben ef he hut you ter do so, 
een de c’lection plate, dat is wah I cha’ge unner 
fer do on de Sabbat’ day. But w’en Monday come, 
dis yo’ fer do. Tell de trut’ whensomebber 
unner kin see yo’ way clear ter do so. 

“An’ don’t teef nuttin wah ain’t b’longs ter 
yo’, ’cep he yiz bittle, dat you is bleeged fer hab, 
wedder he is tele urn, or no tek um. 

“Don’t inwite none ob ver Bredder wife fer go 
’way wid yo’. If unner is do dat, unner is likely 
fer go ter hell berry quick, an’ dat by de razor 
route. 

“Now I done gib unner de rebelation ob hell, 
an’ nex’ I is gwine ’splain ter unner consarnin’ 
de heabenly home. 

Hackey, ebrybody in dis congregation, wah I 
gwine tell unner. 


Pastor Caesar Gilyad Discourses 59 


“Tu’n yo’ yea’s dis-a-way, so yo’ ain’ miss 
nuttin. I wan’ yo’ fer yeddy ebry wud I givine 
utter. 

“De Hebbenly mansion is a place wah unner 
ain’ haffer do one lick ob wuk, not one lick, 
Sail! Him street is gol’, an’ him tree is bear 
de leaf wah is nuttin’ but de diamon’ an’ de 
precious stone, de sapphy, de turkus, (I ain’ 
nebber look ’pun dat las’ kine myself as yet.) 
an’ de gate whereof is mek ob de solid pearl. 

“An’ ag’in I tell unto you, my Bredren, dat 
w’en unner git dere unner ain’ haffer do one 
lick ob ivuk! Dat is please you, enty? 

“An’ moresomober, I hear dem say dat unner 
ain’ eben haffer feed unner self, unner dis open 
yo’ mouV an’ de angul come flying on ’e wing, 
fer put de bittle eenside ob um, an’ all you gwine 
haffer do is ter swaller. T’ink ob dat, my Bred- 
der! Nuttin’ fo’ do but swaller de milk an’ de 
honey wah de angul fetch fo’ unner! Dat please 
yo’, enty? 

“Wah is dat I yeddy somebody da ax me? 
Speak um out, Sister, don’t ’shame ter ’terro- 
gate de Preacher. You ax me ‘Who is milk 
de cow? An’ who is ’ten de bee?’ 


60 


Brown Jackets 


“Ok, gullong wid yo’ foolishness, Sister! 
Wak mek yo’ can’ le’ de King ob all do ’e own 
housekeeping 

“Enty I yeddy annoder v’ice? Wah him want? 
Sambo, you wa’ know wak kine ob a coat you 
gwine fine up dere fer fit ober de wing you 
gwine grow? Do, man! I ain’ tek de pashuns 
fer answer dat ’terrogation; ’e ain’ wut it. Wah 
I say ter unner is dis: ’Stid o’ consarn yo’sef 
’bout de kine of coat unner gwine kab, fer fit 
ober de wing yo’ gwine git, I adwise unner fo’ 
bodder yo’ head about wak kine of a hat yo’ 
gwine fine dere fer fit ober dem horn you gwine 
ter fine yo’sef fitted out wid. Das wak yo’ bet¬ 
ter t’ink pun, lessen yo’ men’ yo’ ways w’ile dere 
is still de time. 

“Ef all de questin’ done ax, we will conclude 
dis sarbice wid de passin ’ ob de plate. See dat 
he is pile high wid de money. Gib ’till ’e hu’t 
yo’; fo’ he who pastures unner, de Shepherd ob 
dis flock, is ’bleeged ter lib hones’. An’ it sho 
tek a heap o’ money fo ’ do dat. Amen, Amen.” 


PHINEAS CONNORS—SERVANT 


The grayness which comes to a negro’s skin 
when he is ill had come to that of my poor old 
Connors, and in his case it was a precursor of 
death, for there was no hope of his recovery, 
and I, with a heavy heart in my breast, was a 
constant visitor at his bedside in the hospital 
to which I had persuaded him to be removed for 
better care than in his own home. 

He was a prince among his own color, and 
to me he was a faithful and devoted servant who 
had reigned royally over the dominion of my 
kitchen, dispensing with unfailing good-humor 
and generosity fragrant cups of coffee, to every 
huckster who came inside the yard hoping for 
a purchaser of his wares. I realized that this 
indulgence of Connors’ proclivities was an ex¬ 
travagance on my part, and yet I got so much in 
return for it and for refraining from curbing his 
hospitable dispensations that I know I was really 
a gainer in the end. 

My memory brings me now his rich, sonorous 
voice calling out to a passer-by : 

“Bredder, how ’e is you ain’ been ter chu’ch 
las’ night? You cayn git dere? 



62 


Brown Jackets 


“Well, come een an’ lemme tell yo’ wah de 
preacher binna talk ’bout, de singin’ binna some* 
t’in’ gran’, we miss you een de choir. Come on 
een, Bredder, come on een, Bredder.” 

And shortly thereafter the rich, pungent odor 
of coffee would come to my nostrils, and I real¬ 
ized the delinquent church member was being 
refreshed at my expense. 

In return for many indulgences I won the most 
sincere and undying devotion of my cook, with 
enough of admiration to compensate for any lack 
of it I might encounter elsewhere on my journey 
through life. 

Now my servant was dying, and his great 
frame had shrunk to almost unbelievable noth¬ 
ingness. Sitting at his bedside I read to him, 
and repeated his favorite hymns, but he, though 
enjoying the prayers and the hymns, never once 
admitted to me that he realized his condition, 
but would always say to me in a voice which he 
strove to make convincing: 

“Nex’ week, Miss Janie, I gwinea be back in 
yo’ kitchen, you mus’n’t be ’fraid I ain’a coinin’, 
I knows you can’t git on widout me, I gwinea be 
dere.” 

This reassurance of his to me I could scarcely 
listen to without tears. 


Phineas Connors—Servant 


63 


The evening before he died I was with him and 
said, knowing the end could not be far off: 

“Connors, you know I have your watch in my 
care, and even though you say you’re coming 
back to me, just in case you should not, what 
would you like me to do with it? Do you want 
me to give it to someone?” 

At that he smiled, and looking straight into 
my face said, with broken breath: 

“Miss Janie, you ain’t gwine ter hab ter do 
nuttin’ wid my watch, Missis. I tell you, I’se 
cornin’ back to you, an’ I gwinea wear dat watch 
myself.” 

Hearing his brave words, I took his poor old 
wasted hand, and looking upon my faithful serv¬ 
ant, as I knew for the last time, my heart ached. 
Next morning they sent from the hospital to tell 
me that the end had come. Then I knew that 
Connors’ spirit was where the very best and 
bravest spirits go after the Death Angel has laid 
its hands upon the body. 

Later I was told that Connors having been 
fully conscious of his condition, had made a 
legally perfect will, and that in it he had be¬ 
queathed the watch, which was in my keeping, 
to his adopted son. I also learned that he had 
entreated his friends as well as his nurses not 



64 


Brown Jackets 


to tell me lie was going to die, saying that he 
could not bear to look upon my face after I knew 
it, as Life had brought me much suffering. 

Connors was carried to his grave in a flower 
decked casket, and many of his white friends 
were present. 

To this day I mourn his absence from my 
kitchen, and that I will never again see his kind, 
brown face is a sorrow to me. 

Surely where faithful servants are after death 
Connors’ spirit is happy with its kind. 









































































